


Along Came Potter

by huldrejenta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Community: hd_erised, Falling In Love, Friendship, HP: EWE, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huldrejenta/pseuds/huldrejenta
Summary: Potter shows up at Draco’s flat. Then he shows up again, and again, and again.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SqueekaCuomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SqueekaCuomo/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, dear keeper_of_stars! I hope you enjoy this! Many thanks to the mods for all your work, making it possible for us all to enjoy this wonderful fest. And an enormous hug goes to L for beta reading!

When Draco steps into the narrow hallway to find Harry Potter leaning against the door to his flat, he’s seconds away from dropping his shopping bags onto the tiled floor in sheer shock. 

“Potter,” he says. His eyes go wide and his fingers tighten around the bags as he steels every nerve in his body not to flinch, distantly aware that he sounds just as stunned as he feels. “What on _earth_ are you doing here?” And then, an inhale later: “Trying to give me a heart attack, are you? If that was your intention, I can inform you that you very nearly succeeded.”

Potter lifts his hand in greeting, rather lazily in Draco’s opinion, and then he goes ahead and _smiles_. Like this is all a perfectly natural situation, and Draco is the one who’s overreacting. 

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Potter says. 

Apparently, this is all the explanation he’s willing to offer. Or, judging by the easy tilt of his hips and the relaxed curve of his shoulders, this is, in Potter’s eyes, all the explanation that’s needed.

Draco disagrees. He disagrees strongly, and he’d like to come up with a sarcastic and clever remark to point out just how much he disagrees. Thing is, the sight of Potter standing in front of his door, casual as you please, throws him off enough to make his arsenal of suitable comebacks momentarily inaccessible.

“So?” he says instead. It’s a most substandard reply and he would’ve rolled his eyes at himself if he weren’t still frozen in shock.

Potter shifts his weight from one leg to the other. In the unflattering hallway light he looks tired, and the state of his Auror robes leaves much to be desired. It looks as if he came straight here from an assignment crawling through the gutter in Knockturn Alley chasing scoundrels, or whatever awfully important things the Aurors are doing these days. Potter shrugs and says, “I just thought I’d stop by,” and then, with a grin, “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

If Draco was close to dropping his bags when he first saw Potter standing there, now he can just about feel them slipping away from his fingers, heading towards the floor. At the last second he manages to tighten his hold on them. Thank Merlin for small mercies; he’s spent a lot of time locating just the right tea set that Mother wants for Christmas (he likes to do his gift shopping early), and while he had, of course, Charmed them lighter before taking them home, he was hardly anticipating being scared half to death at his own front door, and had therefore not Charmed them unbreakable. On the other hand, if the carefully selected cups and teapot had been ruined, it might have distracted him from the unreal situation he finds himself in. 

Harry Potter standing there, a few feet away from him, asking to be let into his flat.

Draco can hardly pretend he wasn’t on his way inside from the misty-grey evening, dressed in his winter cloak as he is, heading for his door. But finding a suitably snide way to turn Potter away, while still remaining more or less civil, is surprisingly difficult. Landing just on the right side of the tightrope between chilly politeness and rude sarcasm is quite the balancing act. After all, they’re not schoolboys anymore, and Draco prefers to think he’s acquired some level of maturity since he pranced around at Hogwarts. 

But the words aren’t coming. They seem to be stuck somewhere between his increasingly anxious stomach and his dry mouth, which he suspects is wide open at this point. 

“Hey,” Potter says. “Couldn’t hurt, could it?”

The image quite possibly exists in Draco’s imagination only. Merlin knows it wouldn’t be the first time. But he can almost hear the _what are you afraid of?_ that Potter doesn’t say.

Truth be told, Draco is afraid of a lot of things, and to be honest he very likely _is_ afraid of having Potter in his flat. Thing is, he has no desire to explore _why_ (he is after all relatively certain that Potter won’t physically attack him). And exploring why is exactly what his mind will push him to do if he locks himself inside, nothing but his thoughts as company. It’s an image more frightening than actually letting Potter in.

So he lifts his chin, straightens his back and hears himself saying, “Fine.”

And just like that, on a bland and thoroughly uninteresting Tuesday in November, everything changes. 

He finds himself standing in his hall, meticulously unbuttoning his winter cloak before hanging it up onto its peg, untying his soft scarf with long fingers; all the things he would usually do when coming home. He takes off his shoes and wipes off the wet soles before walking over to the cabinet where he puts Mother’s gifts away with the utmost care. Right about now he would usually make himself a nice cup of tea, find something interesting to read, pick up his glasses and sink down into his favourite chair by the window.

Only things are as far away from usual as they possibly can be.

Harry Potter has stepped into the flat, following behind him as close as possible, as if afraid that Draco might change his mind and slam the door in his face. Now he’s taking a look around the place with obvious interest, leaning against the wall. Posture drenched with a lazy confidence that Draco finds missing in himself these days.

His presence fills the room in a way that it always seems to have done, wherever Potter may be. He’s standing there, quietly, but just by being in the room, he compels it to change. The furniture feels different. New, somehow. Beloved books give off an unfamiliar sensation. His collection of magical instruments, strenuously built piece by piece and lain behind the cabinet glass door with loving hands; it’s always given him a sense of safety. Now it is lying there, quietly expectant.

Or maybe it’s all in Draco’s mind.

Again, it wouldn’t be the first time.

But when nothing seems the way they usually are, behaving like usual doesn’t come easily. Instead, Draco remains still. Observing. Wondering why he ever allowed the situation to come to this.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Potter says, breaking the silence just before it enters into the territory of Horribly Awkward. Draco lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been clinging to. 

Potter’s eyes are everywhere; he looks genuinely interested. His Auror robes make a swooshing sound as he pushes off the wall and saunters into the living room. “Not at all what I expected.” He walks over to the shelf in the corner where he stops with one foot on the squeaky floorboard. He picks up a box, the one where Draco stores his drawings (he’s not very good, but he enjoys it) and hums to himself.

“What did you expect?” Draco says instead of following his instinctual urge to tell him to put the box back down. Potter is an Auror, after all. He’s hardly incapable of handling a box without ruining it.

“Oh, I dunno.” Potter moves to open the lid, but seems to think better of it and puts the box down instead. “Old, antique paintings on the wall, maybe. Or some sculptures here and there. Marble tiles on the floor. That sort of thing.”

Draco snorts. “This isn’t the Manor, you know.”

Potter sends him a lopsided smile across the room and walks over to the book collection, bending slightly by the shelf to get a better look. One long index finger glides across the spines as he reads. 

“Advanced Potions,” he says. “Arithmancy. Alchemy. No surprises there, I suppose. You always were sort of bookish at school. Ooh! Poems! I never took you for a poetry guy, Malfoy. It’s always the ones you least expect, isn’t it?”

“That book is a classic,” Draco says with an impatient wave of his hand, making an effort to break out of his temporary daze. “What are you doing here, Potter?” He makes his way towards his unexpected guest and crosses his arms. “For real?”

Potter turns around, dusts something invisible off of his robe with a distant motion and meets Draco’s eyes. He actually manages to look surprised, as if Draco is asking something quite unreasonable. 

“I told you,” he says. “I was nearby. I just finished a job in this neighbourhood. So I thought, well, you know. Why not?” He’s left with a puzzled expression, voice fading with every word. Hard to believe this is the same bloke who just a few seconds ago strolled around with an air of confidence that Father in his prime would’ve been proud of. “Do you mind?”

What kind of question is that? Of course he minds. “I simply don’t understand the nature of your visit,” Draco says. “After, what, how many years of hardly speaking to each other, it suddenly occurs to you that coming here to say hello is a splendid idea? And then you march in like you own the place and look at everything and start going through my things and...”

Salazar’s twisted beard. Of course. Why didn’t he think of this sooner? As much as he prefers to stay clear of the radar these days, pottering about and minding his own affairs, deep down he knows. It’s always there. The suspicion. It stays glued to him like a particularly persistent spell. Unshakable. 

His shallow composure forcibly cracks, fear and anger and something else he’s not able to identify twists and bends and entwines in his stomach, accompanied by the nauseous stumble of his heart, until it all snaps. 

“You’re investigating me, aren’t you? Hmm?” He steps closer to Potter, who looks startled, eyes wide open; did he honestly think Draco wouldn’t get it? Potter hasn’t exactly been subtle now that he thinks about it, even showing up in his Auror uniform, sweet Merlin. Draco is vaguely aware that his voice is too loud, that he isn’t doing a particularly good job swallowing his anger and his distress and dealing with this in the dignified manner he’s aiming for these days, but right now he can’t be arsed to care. 

“Am I allowed to be told what it is I’m supposed to have done this time? Or is that information that the ex Death Eater can’t be trusted with?”

“Malfoy – ”

“Ten years, Potter, ten bloody years of staying low and minding my own business, not even so much as a warning for reckless flying. So tell me, what more do you guys want? When will it be over?” 

Later, he will chalk it all up to anxiety and fear and _hurt_ , but now, just for a split second between one breath and the next, he sees Potter as much larger than he really is; his frame aiming for the ceiling, his eyes burning, his hands ready for action. Then Draco blinks and it’s gone.

All that’s left is big eyes behind Potter’s glasses as he takes a tentative step towards him.

“Malfoy, no, listen to me. Listen! I’m not here on Auror business! Okay?” Potter drags a hand through his hair, jerkily, and he sighs, staring down at his hands. They look cold, Draco notices somewhere at the back of his mind. “I’m such an idiot, aren’t I? Of course that’s what you’d... No. No. I told you the truth. I just felt like stopping by.” He lifts his shoulders in a helpless little shrug and looks up at Draco again, eyes wide and imploring. 

And isn’t it stupid how such a little thing is able to crawl into that curled-in part of Draco’s belly, the part that shelters his fears and his resentment, and soften the tight knots they’ve all coiled into? Draco can almost feel himself deflate as hot anger slowly crumbles, leaving something akin to bashfulness in its wake. 

Because somehow, inexplicably, Draco believes that Potter is telling the truth.

Potter always was a horrible liar.

“Okay?” Potter says.

Draco doesn’t quite know how to answer that. He’s filled with an unexpected urge to explain himself, to make Potter understand. To show that he isn’t completely irrational. To put into words that being dragged in for questioning whenever a crime faintly smelling of neo Death Eater activity has occurred, with no other connection to him than his actions as a teenager, will do something to you. It has, to be fair, been a while since it last happened, but the part of his brain that jumps in advance, instantly dreading the feeling of utter helplessness that he knows too well, obviously hasn’t got the message.

“Er,” he says instead, because somewhere down the line his ability to explain himself has obviously gone well and truly down the drain. _Merlin, Draco, you can do better than this._ But in this moment it doesn’t seem that he can, so what comes out is a polite, “Would you like some tea?” It’s not what he meant to say, not at all, but it is a reasonable question for a host to ask his guest, no matter how uninvited said guest might be, so Draco supposes he shouldn’t be too hard on himself.

Potter’s eyes are instantly bright, but he says nothing at first. Instead his mouth quirks up into a smile that tells Draco, with the certain clarity slightly out of proportion to the less than transparent situation, that Potter’s confidence is back.

“You don’t happen to have any hot chocolate?” Potter says with a grin and what could easily be perceived as a cheeky edge to his voice. He doesn’t know when to stop if he’s got an idea stuck in his head, he never has, and quite honestly, Draco has no idea why that should surprise him. “It’s freezing outside,” Potter says, hugging himself to emphasise, “nothing like a cup of chocolate to warm up the bones.”

No, Draco shouldn’t be surprised that Potter is made of impulsive whims and that he sometimes acts on them. The fact that coming here to spend time with Draco seems to be one of those ideas, is what baffles him.

“I’m getting us some tea,” Draco says, briskly heading for the kitchen. And he adds, without quite meaning to, “Hot chocolate is for friends. All guests need to build up to that.”

The sound of Potter’s laugh follows him as he disappears out of sight, busying himself with the familiar ritual of fetching cups and making tea in an attempt to drown the questions in his head. Because, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say this is alarmingly close to exchanging _banter_ with Potter, nice and easy banter, and if Draco were to write a list of things he never envisioned ever happening, _that_ would certainly be on the list. Fairly close to the top, even. Getting too far into the why’s and the how’s of the situation right now would put too much strain on his hastily collected and fragile composure. 

Therefore, tea.

When Draco steps back into the living room a few minutes later, levitating a tray with two cups and a steaming teapot, Potter is sitting on one side of the sofa. He looks very much at home with one arm loosely thrown over the back and one leg crossed over his knee, a foot dangling in an even pace. Draco sits down as well, as far away from Potter as possible, because... Well. He can’t really pinpoint exactly why, only recognising a vague voice in his head, or his spine, he doesn’t know, that tells him it’s for the best.

“So,” Draco says, dimly registering that he’s forgotten to bring any sugar. “Has it been a hard day... Auroring? Or whatever it is that you’re doing at work.” When in doubt, stick to the script. Do what he’s been taught to do. Be a good host. Even if he’s unable to tuck the sarcasm away completely.

Potter releases a sound that can almost pass as a bemused laugh. Then he launches into a story from his work, about some bloke they’ve arrested who’s been swindling people, trying to sell them Truth Telling Crystal Balls that not only didn’t work, but frequently exploded when exposed to magic. Draco makes a half-hearted effort to listen while he’s pouring out the tea, but he still hasn’t come to terms with the surreal sight that is Harry Potter in his flat. Sitting on his sofa. Talking about his day. 

“What about you,” Potter says when his story is finished, apparently fine with Draco mostly saying _mmh_ and _okay_ and _yes_ a few times along the way, “have you seen any Quidditch games lately?”

Draco hasn’t, whereas Potter seems to have seen pretty much every game there is, and keeps talking. At least this is a conversation Draco has got some knowledge about and can contribute to, like any normal person would when getting a social call. It’s stilted, it’s awkward, but it’s a conversation nonetheless.

When the tea is empty and neither one of them seems to have anything in particular to say, Draco collects the cups, one on top of the other. (He does have a lot he could say, he supposes, but it’s all questions and they’re all better left unspoken, he’s pretty certain.) He rises from the sofa and flexes his toes a few times; they’ve fallen asleep on him in their stiff position, and he heads for the kitchen with the cups.

“Thank you,” Potter says as he fiddles with the hem of his uniform. “Thank you, Malfoy. Really. It’s been...”

It’s only as Draco returns after performing a quick cleaning spell and put the cups away that he realises this was Potter’s way of saying goodbye. Because there’s no sign of him, nothing except the teapot still on the table that says anyone has been here at all.

He’s alone in his flat again. He can breathe and relax and do what he normally does without strange encounters from the past to shake him up. Peace and quiet. No one to disturb him. Finally.

: : :

Draco usually prefers the shops in his Muggle neighbourhood instead of Apparating into Diagon Alley. He’s not worried, not exactly, about the idea of walking around in Wizarding London. Not anymore. It’s just more convenient, he tells himself, walking over to the shop on the corner, slightly gloomy as it may be; listening to (or ignoring, depending on his mood and the current topic) the bloke behind the counter as he talks non-stop into one of those Muggle devices; telephone, Draco thinks, about his wife’s lumbago or last night’s dart game down at the pub. Always greeting Draco with a friendly “Hello” when he pays for his food and his drink and whatever else he needs. They’ve never talked much beyond that.

Yes, definitely more convenient.

So it’s not particularly often that Draco goes to Diagon Alley. One of the great things about working from home, having the financial freedom to pick and choose which articles he wants to write and which ones he doesn’t want to write, is not having to deal with anyone on days when his flat is more than enough. Those days are not devastatingly frequent, but they do happen; and when they do and he doesn’t have to gather energy he doesn’t have to subtly look over his shoulder in a crowd or proudly lift his chin, he counts his blessings.

But today is not one of those days and he takes the trip to Diagon Alley. 

Instinct takes him to the same spot he used to land whenever he’d Side-Along with Father. The trips they used to take during the weeks leading up to Christmas were always his favourite ones. Most of the gift shopping was left to the house elves, of course, but Father would always buy one special present for Mother. Draco was allowed to tag along. Holding Father’s hand when he was little; later they’d walk side by side, Draco adjusting his pace to Father’s. Colourful Christmas decorations were everywhere he looked. The fairy lights and the floating icicles always seemed larger and brighter in his memories than when he’s seen them in recent years. Mistletoe and festoons of holly decorated every window, and the door bells would jingle extra merrily as father and son entered. 

Father would take his time. Sometimes he’d buy one of those rare, old books with covers of silk, carefully picked out from the dusty shelves at Flourish and Blotts. Sometimes he picked up jewelry specifically made after his instructions or a unique piece of clothing. Afterwards, if Draco had been a good boy, they’d go to Florean Fortescue’s where he’d get a cone of his favourite ice cream and a cup of hot chocolate. He was always a good boy. Hot chocolate never tasted better than when sitting across from Father, the drink lavished with whipped cream and just a hint of cinnamon. He used to watch how everyone treated Father with the utmost respect. Just the way it should be. The same kind of respect any witch or wizard of his kind was entitled to.

And in his memories it always used to snow.

Today, though, it’s raining, dirty-grey sludge covering the winding pavements. People are covered in many-layered clothes against the November wind, hurrying to wherever their destination may be. Some decorations are up, but it’s still several weeks until Christmas, so it’s not a whole lot.

No one stops to pay their respects this time. No one seems to pay much attention to him at all.

A thin voice reaches his ears. “When can we buy the Wizard Crackers?” It’s a little girl asking her mother as they pass him. She’s red-cheeked and eager like only a child who’s yet to see the evil of the world can be. Her mother sighs in a weary and fond way and says, for what Draco suspects is far from the first time today, “When it’s closer to Christmas, sweetie.” They keep walking and soon they’re swallowed up by the crowd. 

He doesn’t quite know why he came here today. It seemed like a nice thing to do. Now that he walks up the street with his boots slipping on spots of ice and sludge, half-tripping on a particularly slippery one, he’s not so certain anymore. The sun has already fallen behind the foggy horizon and Draco tightens his scarf around his neck. Might as well go home. He finds himself close to the candy store; it’s not Honeydukes exactly, but it does have a nice collection of butter toffee and chocolate frogs and fudge. Getting something warm and sweet to bring back home doesn’t sound so bad and he heads for the shop. He comes out again with a paper bag full of the rich, dark chocolate he favours when making cocoa. It’s been a while since he thought of buying any, and he’s not delusional enough to dismiss that Potter’s visit has got something to do with it. He tucks those thoughts carefully away and Apparates home.

: : :

The next time Potter shows up, a few days later, Draco has already made it into his flat. He wasn’t carrying any Christmas presents this time, only a bag full of groceries and some new coloured pencils for his drawings. The bloke behind the shop-around-the-corner counter had been even less talkative than usual, busy as he was reminding his wife on the telephone to bring an umbrella. The persistent November rain they’ve had for days makes no sign to be ending any time soon, and Draco is decidedly happy to be back home in his flat. It’s a nice flat, he thinks, quite cosy actually. It’s his, and he loves it like he’s loved little else in the past decade or so.

He’s just finished putting everything away when there’s a knock on the door. “Hi,” says Potter when Draco opens it, leaning against the doorway. 

“Potter,” Draco says, wondering why he’s surprised. He learned early on in life to expect the unexpected from Potter, but apparently he’s yet to find the key to expect the right thing. 

But something is different this time. Potter looks like shit. Well, not quite like shit, he’s still filling out those Auror robes quite nicely and some would probably find those black curls attractive. It doesn’t hide the fact that he looks dead tired. His mouth is tight and rigid, revealing that Potter is in pain.

“Are you all right?” Draco says in spite of himself, opening the door to let Potter in. After all, it would be a terrible fuss from the neighbours if a man were to bleed to death on his doorstep, or whatever it is that’s happening here.

“I’m fine,” Potter says, wincing as he limps inside and towards the sofa. He sits down with heavy movements, letting out a sigh through clenched teeth. “Just fine.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Potter. You look about as happy as Trelawney used to when she couldn’t find anyone’s death to predict.” Potter pulls out a small smile at that and drags a hand through his hair. 

“It’s nothing serious,” he says. “Mostly it was just me being clumsy.” He tugs at the hem of his trouser leg and pulls it up, inch by painful inch, grimacing in the process. When he’s done, he’s revealing a long wound starting right below the knee, going in a straight line down his shin, ending right above his ankle. It’s not quite as deep as Draco feared, but still deep enough that he can easily imagine it hurts.

“What happened?”

Potter shrugs. “All hazard of the job.” And then he doesn’t say more. Draco doesn’t ask, and he can tell by Potter’s face that he wouldn’t have said more even if Draco had asked. Well, he can relate to not wanting people asking questions all the time. So he lets it go.

“Might need a hand with this though,” Potter says. “It’s a real pain trying to heal my own injuries and I’ve never quite got the hang of those pesky healing spells anyway.”

He looks up at Draco, and maybe Potter has done something to make Draco’s brain work at half speed when he’s around. Whatever it is, it takes more than a few heartbeats longer than it normally would’ve before Draco gets it. Potter wants Draco to heal his wound.

“Don’t you guys have people to take care of this stuff?” Draco can hear how defensive he sounds and how high-pitched his voice goes, but something about this makes him feel like he’s soon about to burst, so he’s not too hard on himself. “And what makes you think that I am any good with those spells?”

“We do have people for this,” says Potter, cocking his head. “But it’s always such a hassle with check-ups and filling out dozens of forms and the whole commotion of worried colleagues and everyone asking questions. I prefer to avoid it all when I can. Besides,” he continues on the next breath, “I happened to be in your neighbourhood.”

“Again?”

Potter smiles and talks in a lazy drawl quite at odds with his injured leg and obvious pain. “Yes, Malfoy. Again.” He finds Draco’s eyes and holds them until Draco looks away. “As for if you’re any good at healing spells, I thought... Well. I think that you’re probably pretty good at most spells, to be perfectly honest.”

“I really don’t think...” Draco begins. He looks out of the window, one of the large ones he fell for when he first came to see the flat, out to the London lights that are never put out. And he wonders just when it was that he became this guy, the one who says “No” to most things, out of habit and convenience and maybe out of fear. He’s not altogether certain that he likes being that guy.

“You don’t think what?” Potter cuts through the haze of his thoughts. “That you could do this? Of course you can do this.”

And yes, Draco supposes that he can.

Draco kneels in front of Potter with his wand ready, letting his empty hand fall onto Potter’s knee for better balance. “Ready?” he says, and then, after a quick nod from Potter, _“Episkey”_.

Whole, uninjured skin appears where the wound was seconds before. And then he doesn’t let go of Potter’s knee. He doesn’t even mean to keep it there, staring at the fresh skin, somehow caught up in the surreal bubble that is him and Potter and a tense _something_ lingering between them. It’s only when Potter clears his throat that Draco realises what he’s doing, and he rips his hand away as if burned.

“All right?” Draco says, waving towards Potters leg.

“Quite all right,” Potter says. “Thank you, Malfoy.” He pulls his trouser leg down and wriggles a little on the sofa, finding a better position. “I think maybe you get it. That sometimes it’s nicer to just lay low.” 

Draco doesn’t really know what to say to that so he says nothing. He stands up, adjusts his wrinkled shirt and then wipes his hands on his trousers as subtly as he can manage. This definitely seems like the time for tea, and he says so, out loud.

“Still no hot chocolate?” The teasing lilt is back in Potter’s voice and Draco thinks about the newly acquired chocolate sitting in his kitchen cabinet. He thinks about sitting across from Potter, both of them cradling a steaming cup of cocoa in their hands. For some reason the image feels strangely intimate in a way that tea doesn’t. Cozy, sort of, implying that the two of them are friends somehow. He doesn’t want to go there, especially after what just happened on the floor, which was actually nothing, to be honest, but still. So, tea it is. 

Potter follows him into the kitchen, where Draco sets out cups on the counter. Potter scoops up two spoonfuls of sugar and waits for the tea to cool. Draco is too jittery to wait and ends up scalding his tongue. 

They drink quietly for a few minutes. Draco is trying to think of something to say when Potter catches him staring. He looks back at him for an amount of time that quickly approaches alarming. Draco’s throat is dry in spite of the tea, but then Potter looks down as he stirs his cup, slowly, and the moment is over. 

Or maybe the moment was all in Draco’s head. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

When Potter has emptied his cup, Draco smiles a tight-lipped little smile and refills it. “Thank you,” Potter says, grinning brightly. “This is nice, isn’t it? You actually make decent tea, Malfoy.” 

Draco looks up just long enough to sniff and glare at Potter, but his heart isn’t in it. It’s more out of old habit than anything else.

Because unbelievable as it may seem, it is. Nice. He feels inexplicably warmer inside right now, drinking tea with Potter in his kitchen and not doing much talking, than he has in a long time. Which is scary in ways he can’t really express in words. Silly ideas run through his head, things like _please let me have this._ He doesn’t quite know what _this_ is. Maybe it is this warm feeling in his belly. Maybe it is spending time with someone who doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t want any questions back. The whole situation is weirdly _undemanding_ but scary nonetheless. Because this might make him _want_ , and wanting doesn’t mean getting. Not by a long shot.

Suddenly he’s filled with the need for Potter to leave. And after the second cup of tea and a tiny amount of small talk, Potter says, “Thank you, Malfoy” and then he’s gone before Draco finds any words in return.

It takes a while for him to fall asleep that night. He lies underneath his soft, warm blankets, head heavy on his pillow. Looking at the strip of moonlight peeking in through an opening in his curtains. Listening to the quiet sound of his own breath. Inhale. Exhale. One, two, three, four. He falls asleep at one hundred fifteen and dreams of nothing.

: : :

If someone had told Draco a few years ago that George Weasley would end up being the one person, besides Mother, that he talks to the most, he’d ask them how much Firewhiskey they’d drunk that day. Truth be told, if someone had told him that he’d have anything to do with any Weasley besides contemptuous glares and exchanging insults, he’d most likely shake his head and laugh. 

So no one was more surprised than him when that’s exactly what happened. 

He’s on his way to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and something about Diagon Alley is different today. Brighter, somehow. The sludge and ice that covered the streets on his last visit have been defeated by the sun, and Draco walks easily while breathing in the fresh air, George’s shop in sight. 

It’s an easy mistake to make when dealing with George, Draco thinks as he walks up the stairs and steps inside, to believe there’s pretty much only mischief and an endless row of practical jokes going on in George’s brain. To be fair, Draco had made that mistake himself when they first started talking a few years back. He’d been more than a little sceptical when he’d been referred to George Weasley as the man to talk to when researching for an article. Certain aspects of Transfiguration theory, it was. Five minutes into their conversation he was convinced that George definitely knew what he was talking about. 

He’d asked George for advice on another few articles, and slowly their relationship had changed from strictly professional, tainted with mutual distrust, to what Draco tentatively thinks of as a friendship. He’s not at all certain how it happened, but he’s learned to count his blessings and accepts that it is what it is.

“Hey there, Draco.” George is balancing on top of a dangerously tall ladder, a stack of boxes in one hand and what looks like a jumping toy of some sort in the other. He looks perfectly calm. “What’s up?” 

Draco has learned that George usually knows what he’s doing, even when it looks like he’s trying his best to bring permanent damage to himself. So Draco doesn’t comment on George’s hazardous position below the ceiling. Instead, he shrugs out of his cloak and finds a peg that’s not occupied by singing crackers or shopping bags spelled to give their owner messages. (It was originally supposed to be stuff like “You’ve spent enough galleons for today, thank you” or “That’s quite enough chocolate, it’s not good for you” but George changed it to “That’s okay, treat yourself to one more” and others like it. A lot more fun according to George when he showed Draco on his last visit, and Draco tends to agree.)

There are festive garlands in all colours covering every spare spot on the walls (which aren’t all that many to be fair), and eager chatter comes from a few kids exploring whatever they can get their hands on, discussing what to wish for in their Christmas stockings. 

“I was wondering if you’ve given any more thought to what we talked about earlier, about the common properties of Banishing and Summoning Charms.” 

George has climbed down from the ladder, puts the stack of boxes away and greets the kids with a bright smile before heading over to Draco. He’s given Draco’s question some thought, apparently, and they find themselves deep in conversation before they know it. 

“I love what you wrote in your last article,” George says. He stops to say goodbye to the kids as they leave, still discussing what items they want the most. “You know,” George continues, tidying his counter display with practised fingers, “the one about expanded uses of Untransfiguration.” 

They talk theory for a while, and as George starts unpacking the boxes he’d brought down, he says, in a muffled voice, his ginger head halfway inside the box: “I think some of those ideas can be used on brooms as well.” And then, peeking up again, “I talked to Angelina about it, and she loved the idea.”

Draco can’t say why, exactly, but at the mention of Angelina, something in his head says _click_ , and his mouth decides to take over.

“When did you know?” 

“When did I know what?” George’s entire face eases into a grin. “Know that you’re a big dunce who’s not half as menacing as you pretend to be? I’ve known that for ages, Draco, but don’t worry about it, I still like you.”

The question left Draco’s tongue without consulting his brain first. This is what happens when he lets his guard down. Now he’s got no idea how to continue. 

“I meant, about Angelina.”

“About Ang... Oh.” George’s eyes flash as realisation hits him, fond amusement quirked on his lips. “What’s this I hear, Draco? Has some lucky person managed to capture your interest?” He speaks calmly, but Draco knows him well enough to know that he might have some serious prodding ahead of him. George can be quite merciless when he wants to be. “Who is it?”

“It isn’t...” Draco begins, but George cuts in.

“No, no. There’s no way you can let something like that slip out and not say more.” 

Oh no, he’s not about to go there; he doesn’t even know where _there_ is, if he’s to be perfectly honest, and he’s far too wound up all of a sudden to be anything else. His stomach drops to somewhere down around his feet as he thinks of something, anything, to say.

“Maybe it’d do you good to talk to someone about it,” George says, uncharacteristically patient-sounding, watching him with sympathy in his brown eyes. “Whatever it is.”

Something unexpectedly warm and bubbly sparkles to life inside Draco, vibrating all the way to his fingers and toes. 

“Why are you always so nice to me?” he asks, dumbly, instead of replying. But it is, in Draco’s opinion, a fair question. How come George is always able to see so much _good_ in Draco? He’s never really figured it out.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” George says, simple as that. “It’s not like it’s a one-way thing, you know. I like spending time with you. You care about people, even if you’re not the best at showing it.” 

His eyes narrow as his mouth opens in a wide grin, wiggling his eyebrows. “But don’t think for a second that you’re off the hook. About having your eyes set on someone, I mean. I’ll get back to you on that one, don’t you worry.”

Draco can’t help but grin back, feeling his insides settling down again. He got off easy this time. And he can’t say for certain why he suddenly asked about Angelina, or rather, why he felt the urge to talk about when someone, well, when they _like_ another person. It’s not as if he’s interested in anyone, not like that. His dating life has been like a barren desert lately, and nice as it would be for that to eventually change, he’s not about to let his thoughts go down that road. 

It’s a dangerous place for them to go. Because as much as he might like to think so when he remembers Potter sitting across from him with a cup of tea in his hand and an easy smile on his face, Potter has given him no reason to think they’re heading anywhere near that direction.

Just as well. Saves him that particular brand of heartache, at least.

: : :

As the weeks go by and November messily slides into December, this thing with him and Potter seems to become regular. Every so often Potter will show up at Draco’s flat, unannounced and unplanned for. Sometimes he stays for a while and sometimes he’s out again just as quickly as he showed up. 

Nothing really changes about these visits, except that somehow, it does. It feels different, even if Draco can’t put his finger on it. Of course, it is always possible that it’s all in Draco’s head. But somehow, this time Draco doesn’t think that it is. 

Because Potter seems different too, just a little bit. He’s still friendly, without telling much about his life barring the odd story from his work, or asking much about Draco’s life. Just like he’s been since he first came here. And yet, things between them are more... _comfortable_. “Were you in the neighbourhood again?” Draco will ask as Potter stands there, and Potter will smile, sheepishly and say, “Something like that.” It becomes a thing between them. An inside joke between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. How strange is that?

During these visits, Draco learns a few things about Potter. He is not, despite his demeanour, quite as confident as Draco was led to believe at first. Potter hides it well, but as Draco gets to know him better, he sees less brashness and more hesitancy. It’s not obvious, but it’s there.

He learns that Potter is quite a funny guy. He learns that Potter enjoys his tea a lot sweeter than Draco does. And he learns that Potter doesn’t want to talk much about his life.

What he doesn’t learn is why Potter keeps coming here. Potter never says anything about it, and if Draco asks (an exasperated “Why on earth are you here?”) he’s met with a shrug and a small smile. But somewhere down the line Draco acknowledges it to himself: he’s got so comfortable with their little routine that he can’t really be too annoyed about the lack of answers. 

He can’t imagine why Potter keeps visiting, though. There’s literally nothing exciting about Draco’s life. He works from home and has no thrilling anecdotes to share. He’s dated three people in his life if he counts Pansy (which he usually doesn’t, as their relationship consisted of a whole lot of pretending he’s not particularly proud of in hindsight). His idea of a great evening is sitting in his favourite chair with an old book on his lap and his reading glasses on his nose, a nice glass of red wine in his hand.

But Potter seems to find him intriguing enough to come back, again and again.

One time Potter brings Chocolate Frogs and they sit side by side, eating the frogs and discussing the merits of the card with Felix Summerbee compared to the one with Bridget Wenlock. And every time Potter leaves, Draco’s flat seems just a little bit more silent. Inexplicably, Potter has managed to worm his way into Draco’s flat and Draco’s life, little by little. Until they’re at this point where it’s perfectly normal – well, moderately normal – to sit together and talk about nothing in particular. And when Potter is not there, Draco eats his dinner in his kitchen, watching the reflection of a lone figure in the window, sitting by himself. 

For years he’s cherished solitude. He’s not certain if he does anymore.

: : :

The next time Draco comes by Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes for some professional advice and some good company, George isn’t alone, even though it’s past his closing hour. 

It’s a miracle it hasn’t happened sooner. Maybe George has intentionally kept their appointments on times when he knows his friends most likely won’t be there. Or maybe he’s just been lucky. 

Whatever the reason, today is an exception. When he opens the door, making the doorbell ring its cheery welcoming tune, he stops in his tracks as he notices the woman talking with George. He’d recognise that hair anywhere, even from behind, and even if said hair is less wild than it used to be. The woman is Hermione Granger.

This could’ve been more awkward, painful even, if it had been the first time they met since the war. Thankfully, it’s not the first time. He’s run into Hermione a couple of times over the years; tense and strained at first, eventually approaching normal conversations.

Still, they’re not exactly close.

Now she’s here, in George’s shop. George notices Draco first and greets him like he always does. “Hey there, Draco. What’s up?” 

“Hello,” Hermione says, turning around to face him. She looks perfectly poised, perfectly polite, and Draco’s shoulders lower themselves, just a little bit.

“Hello,” he says back, to the both of them. He doesn’t know how to take it from here, but George keeps talking for them all, and as Draco takes off his gloves and his scarf, he glances at Hermione at the corner of his eye. There’s something... _warm_ about her in a way. She’s got thick, fluffy scarves around her neck; obviously she’s just arrived, and her cheeks are red in a way that suits her. She joins the conversation and unbuttons her warm winter cloak. They mention Ron and some kids Draco doesn’t catch the name of, and it strikes him how little he knows about the people he went to school with. 

“Are you coming up with us?” George is already heading for his private rooms, talking over his shoulder as Hermione too sends him a questioning look. 

And just like that, Draco finds himself sitting at George’s table in polite conversation with two Gryffindors he didn’t exchange one single amiable word with back at Hogwarts. Time, Draco thinks, does sometimes work wonders. 

“I ran into Blaise Zabini the other day,” Hermione says. “Didn’t talk to him much, but he seems to be doing well.” She grins, just a little. “He didn’t seem any less arrogant than he used to be, though.” And then she looks at Draco, as if worried she’s somehow offended him. 

“No, no,” Draco says, “it’s true. Blaise has always been arrogant, bless him, I doubt that’s changed much.”

“You don’t keep in touch?”

Draco shrugs and pulls one sleeve down, covering his wrist. “I haven’t really stayed in touch with anyone from school. Well, except George.” 

As much as he’s talked to George these past few years, they’ve never really talked about this, and George leans on his elbows, peering at Draco. He has to wipe away some clutter lying on the table to lean forward like this; it’s always a mess here, but it’s somehow a controlled mess, and Draco has grown to enjoy it. As long as the clutter is here and not at Draco’s place.

“Why not?” It’s George asking, in the direct way Draco suspects that Hermione wouldn’t. This has got to be one of the most peculiar conversations he’s had in quite some time, talking to George and Hermione about why Draco’s social life sucks. Or at least it’s the most peculiar one besides his bizarre conversations with Potter that now occur on a regular basis. 

Something about the atmosphere in this room compels him to answer George’s question.

“It’s not like it was a conscious decision. It just sort of happened, little by little. When many small steps all go in the same direction, at some point you find yourself at a place you never anticipated. I don’t know.” 

He closes his mouth and opens it again, searching for the right words. “I used to meet up with a few of them. Pansy. Blaise. Greg every now and then. But it was like... Sometimes having been through tough times together will make people grow closer. And sometimes it will drive them apart because they deal with things differently. And we would all sit there, and I would try to explain how I felt about certain things after a nice Butterbeer or two, and it was like ‘Listen. Listen to what I have to say.’ And when I’d finished, the reaction would be only something like ‘Huh’ and they would talk about whatever was on _their_ mind.”

He waves his hand in a way that can be translated into ‘You know what I mean?’ or something along those lines. “It was nobody’s fault. We just fell apart. Getting together with a friend became having a two-way monologue instead of having a good talk. And then we just sort of... stopped.”

The room is silent when he’s finished, only interrupted by the faint sound of Christmas carol singers passing outside on the street. 

“I know what we need,” Hermione says, rising and walking over to the counter, letting her hand brush Draco’s shoulder as she passes; strangely gentle for the mass of energy that is Hermione Granger, who once hit him square in the face. It’s a long time ago, now, and he probably did deserve it.

“We need some gingerbread cookies and some warm cider.” 

Draco meets George’s eyes across the table as Hermione searches in George’s cupboard for what she needs. Soon the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon fills the air, and George says, “It’s a good idea to just eat and drink what she suggests. Trust me, she’s always right.”

And it does taste wonderful. “This is nice,” Hermione says, just as Potter often does when he’s at Draco’s, and his squirmy insides calm down. If he’s not mistaken, the rain outside seems to turn into snow in the soft light from the nearest lamppost. It’s not quite there yet, but it’s getting close.

“You know,” George says, “I think we all feel a bit lonely from time to time.” 

They don’t respond to that, but they pass the cookies around, all lost in their own thoughts for a minute. Draco thinks of people he’s lost and opportunities he should’ve seized. And he thinks of new chances and getting to know people one more time. He suspects that George’s and Hermione’s thoughts aren’t all that different from his.

And maybe, just maybe, what Potter is thinking when he knocks at Draco’s door isn’t all that different either.

: : : 

It’s a few days before Christmas. Draco has decorated his flat more than he’s done in years; he’s even pulled out the old, many-coloured lights he used to have in his room back at the Manor. He’s had lunch with Mother in Diagon Alley for the first time in far too long, and he’s even bought some holiday cards. They’re lying on the coffee table, still empty, but he thinks he’s going to write a few of his old friends this year. Maybe nothing comes out of it. It’s still nice to say ‘Hi’. 

He’s finished his Christmas shopping too. Not that he buys a lot of presents, but it’s a good feeling to be done. He thinks about the wrapped box with the book about Quidditch inside that he’s hidden away and he feels something jump in his belly, not quite certain if it is giddy anticipation or pure fear. Possibly something in between.

“Hi,” Potter says as he walks inside, brushing snow off his cloak.

“Hi,” Draco says and lets him in. “Would you like some hot chocolate?” 

Potter smiles, brightly, and Draco supposes that’s a ‘Yes’, or maybe it’s a ‘Finally’. 

“Do you remember,” Potter says later as they sit on the sofa, closer than they used to do the first times he was here, “that you’ve asked me why I come here?” Potter has got a smudge of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth and Draco can’t look away. 

“I’ve asked you that more than once,” he says.

“The first time was just an idea that popped into my head, really. Why not go visit Draco Malfoy when I’m so close by, and yes, I really was in the neighbourhood, and yes, I had looked up where you live. I can’t quite explain why.” He puts his cup down and catches Draco’s eyes. “But I know why I kept coming back. It’s like... You don’t expect anything from me. I can be me. You can be you. And we just hang, and it’s brilliant.”

The atmosphere between them is thick enough to slice through, and this time Draco is certain it’s not in his head only. Potter can feel it too.

“So, when were you planning to kiss me?” he says, bravely, oh so bravely, but he knows with a clarity that startles him that Potter is at the same place as he is.

Potter, or maybe he ought to be calling him Harry now that he’s on his way to kiss him, encircles Draco’s wrist. Draco tries very hard to hold all his pieces together, but Harry has other ideas and leans down to press a kiss against the twist of Draco’s wrist bone, softly, reverently. He continues up his arm, pulling up his shirt as far as it goes to reach the warm skin beneath. By the time Harry’s lips land on Draco’s neck, Draco no longer remembers how to breathe. Who needs air when they can be kissed by Harry Potter?

When their lips meet, chapped and warmed by the chocolate they’ve been drinking, it’s like the final step of a thousand tiny ones they’ve been taking since they sat down. Since the first time Harry was here.

It’s sweet and slow and amazing in a way that unexpected gifts can be. Draco reaches for Harry’s head and twines his fingers through his hair, still damp from the outside snow. Their mouths slide together, and when Harry’s tongue brushes between Draco’s lips, a low sound escapes him; he doesn’t know if it’s a moan or a sigh, and he doesn’t care. All that matters is Harry’s hands cradling his head and Harry’s lips against his own. 

“Wow,” Draco says afterwards, right into Harry’s skin, right where his pulse is beating on his neck, quick and erratic. Harry laughs, or something pretty close to it, and he leans his forehead against Draco’s. 

“I suppose ‘Wow’ sums it up pretty nicely,” he says. “I really wanted to see you tonight. I’m glad you were home.” 

Draco is glad too, more than glad, to be honest, and he’s never felt it more intensely than right this minute; he _is_ home. And he hopes, he thinks, he believes, that maybe, just maybe, Harry is home as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/69133.html) . ♥
> 
> This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at hd_erised @ livejournal.com. The author will be revealed January 9th.


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